Weathervane
by reclariant
Summary: Paulie figures he's in for some good luck.


Title: Weathervane

Rating: PG for Paulie's mouth

Pairing: One sided Paulie/Iceburg, preslashy I suppose .

Spoilers: Post W7/CP9

Summary: Paulie figures he's due for some good luck.

* * *

Paulie still believed in luck. He also believed- no, he was _fairly certain_ that the mother of all losing streaks had to be coming to an end, because honestly? He knew that you had to weather a spell of bad luck to break into the clear sailing of the good, but enough was enough.

Paulie didn't like to wallow in the past- partly because it was pointless, but mostly because it felt like being stabbed in the back all over again _three times in the back, two in front one in the shoulder_. Lately, though, lately things had been looking up. Work had been insane; on top of their already heavy normal roster there had been the city to fix and the responsibilities of two conspicuously absent foremen and a very efficient secretary to share. Paulie guessed that by most people's standards this wouldn't rank as a plus, but he loved the shipyard, loved the city and lo- uh, had a great deal of professional respect and was very fond of Iceburg, so he simply threw himself into the challenge. Well, the offset of that was that suddenly he was a fine, upstanding citizen, because by the time he finished up it was either too late to find a game anywhere or he was too tired to bother. With all the overtime (that he kept loudly protesting and Iceburg kept paying him anyway) his debts seemed to have sorted themselves out, and didn't seem likely to be making a comeback.

Not having rent to pay had helped a lot there, actually. Of course his old place had been below the waterline, and honestly, what with everything that had happened that day _Iceburg's been shot, come to headquarters find Strawhat protect Iceburg_ floodproofing his digs had been the last thing on his mind. After Enies Lobby there had been injuries to heal, the Strawhat's ship to build, the city to fix and by the time he made it back to his place- he wasn't sure _how_ long after he'd left it- his landlord had dumped his ruined stuff on the sidewalk and was bitching about the flood damage. Well. He'd taken one look at the soggy wreck, and thanked whatever god was listening that the blueprints he kept there were waxed and in a waterproof case and that everything actually important (his tools, his favourite jacket, _Iceburg_) was either on him or safe at the temporary headquarters. Then he'd chewed out the landlord, salvaged the blueprints and headed back to the docks. He'd figured there'd be a lumpy and probably brown couch somewhere he could crash on for a while, and it wasn't like the noise from the dockyards (_home_) was going to keep him awake (unless Tilestone happened by). He'd done even better than that, actually; Iceburg, who even without _that woman_ managed to know everything that was going on in the city, had shepherded him into a neat spare room in the living quarters with a real bed and clean sheets and no Tilestone (no Iceburg, either, but two out of three was pretty good).

Somehow he hadn't got around to moving out yet, which was of course to do with finding the time and was not at all related to breakfast with pyjama-clad Iceburg every morning, sleepy eyed and happy to inhale coffee in silence or mumble about decking and tensile strength and other things Paulie liked to talk about, while he blew first-stogie-of-the-day smoke out the window at the asscrack of dawn. He watched the sun rise because it was easier than letting his eyes trace whorls inked into skin or linger on the marks of betrayal, still the colour of bloodied tears, over shoulder, chest, back...He felt really fucking stupid every time he saw the scars, for a variety of reasons, the least of which was for his completely inappropriate and not to mention _sappy_ desire to kiss them better, to lave away the hurt with his tongue as blemishes could be lovingly sanded from sound timber.

After breakfast it was back to Dock One, ships to build, Kiwi and Mozu to harangue (he didn't know where they'd found yellow-tanks-with-bullseyes just like his except drenched with _sin_, and god help him he'd kick them out of the shipyard for following him around like demented twin shadows but they were the only ones who could follow Califa's filing system) and the on-going battle not to turn to the void three workstations down to tell Kaku something, or quashing the urge to throw something every time he saw a (defenceless and not associated with psychotic killers) pigeon. He tried to be philosophical about it (when no-one was looking, anyway) and treated their absence as friends that had died in the fire, and stomped in heavy work boots over the nagging little voice (that sounded infuriatingly like it was issued from a beak) that said his missing nakama had never existed in the first place.

It was getting easier day by day; new faces in the docks, new designs to draft and create, true friends that had survived flood and hellfire and a quiet drink and rare smile from Iceburg at the end of the day, muscles aching from honest labour and their new, intangibly possible dream for the city spoken in hushed, tired reverence. Paulie figured he could no longer call himself a gambling man. But he was pretty certain that his luck had changed.

A/N: Originally written for onepieceyaoi100 's Streak challenge, but I fail at word limits.  



End file.
